


asoiaf tumblr fic prompts :)

by greekphilosophress



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, JonSatin - Freeform, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, sansaery, these are all book canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28377228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greekphilosophress/pseuds/greekphilosophress
Summary: 1. jon x satin (touch starved jon)2. sansa x margaery (jealous!sansa)3. jon x satin (first kiss)
Relationships: Alla Tyrell & Elinor Tyrell & Margaery Tyrell & Megga Tyrell, Sansa Stark & Margaery Tyrell, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Satin Flowers & Jon Snow, Satin Flowers/Jon Snow
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> prompt by anonymous - touch starved jon reacting to a VERY casual-touchy satin (doesn't have to be in a sexual way but...yknow...)

It was dark again when Jon looked up from the inventory sitting on his desk. He had started working on it when the sun was still in the sky, and didn’t realize how late the hour had grown. He stood, taking the time to stretch as he did so, then glanced over at the dark fireplace. Satin _should_ be here by now.

Jon was almost overly fond of Satin, but he always forgot about the fire. On the Wall, fire was one of the most important factors for survival. Jon wasn’t about to freeze to death, but he’s still have to talk to him about it. Speaking of...

The door swung open with a creak, revealing Satin, bearing a steaming tray.

“Jon, I’m sorry I’m late, I was...” he trailed off, noticing all of the papers on the desk. “Were you doing that all afternoon?” He swung his dark gaze to Jon himself. “You have to take a break once in a while!” He set down the tray, not bothering to move any of the sheets of parchment. Jon started, he had been too busy looking at the plate of food to hear what Satin had been saying.

“I’m... sorry, that _is_ for me, right?” 

Satin swept an arm to the side in an exaggerated gesture and mock-bowed. Jon let out a grateful sigh and sat down again, grabbing a piece of rough brown bread and taking a huge bite.

“Mphhh... good.” Satin looked up from where he was, now right in front of Jon, straightening the papers littering his desk.

“Jon, when was the last time you ate?” He had to sit and think about it, and when he was silent for more than ten seconds, Satin said, “You need to take care of yourself! We need our Lord Commander in good health! I ne-” He stopped himself.

Jon was confused. “Well I’m not like to _starve_ to death, am I?” Satin huffed and turned away. “That’s not what I mean.”

The steward moved across the room, and Jon ate in uncomfortable silence. He had grown so used to the familiarity and rapport between him and Satin that he didn’t quite know what to do with himself when it was absent. He stopped when he had two pieces of salt pork and one slice of bread left, making a decision.

“Have _you_ eaten dinner yet?” He broke the tension. Satin looked up with quick eyes. ”Well no, I... came here...” Jon felt the edges of a smile touch the corners of his mouth. “And what’s this about me not taking care of myself? Come over here and have the rest.”

Satin grudgingly pulled a chair over to where Jon sat, and when he pushed the plate in front of him, he didn’t object. Jon watched him, studying the line of his nose, the slope of his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry. I just... I worry.” Satin said very carefully. Jon shook his head. “Don’t. I think you might be my last true friend left here. I can’t have you go about apologizing every time you try to knock some sense into my head.” At that, he smiled.

Satin leaned back in the chair, tipped his eyes over to Jon, and, oh-so casually, laid his head on Jon’s shoulder.

Jon had frozen. It had been so long since anyone had touched him so gently. Almost, tenderly. He had Robb, who would slap him on the back, or Theon, who had, on one memorable occasion, almost broken his nose. Then there was Arya, who had been the only one to genuinely hug him, ever. But this was different.

The men at the Wall didn’t touch each other. Maybe sometimes, after a good shot with the bow or a good spar, they would give you a firm pat on the shoulder. But this was not...

He carefully made himself relax each muscle individually, so as not to scare Satin off. He was acutely aware of the smell combed into his hair, the soft inhale and exhale of his body, shifting slightly. 

He smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt by anonymous - jealous!Sansa

Sansa had very little friends in this world. Jeyne Poole was gone, the gods know where. Arya, her little sister, who she had never really gotten along with but loved dearly, Arya; who might be dead or alive or some awful thing otherwise, gone. Her brothers scattered to the winds - Robb fighting a war he might very well never return from, Jon on the Wall, Bran crippled back home, Rickon small and afraid. Her father was dead, her mother nowhere near.

But she wasn’t alone. Margaery Tyrell was beautiful, smart, funny, and unfailingly kind. She was also Sansa’s best friend in the entire world, which wasn’t saying much, but still. 

“Sansa, would you mind lending me that collection? Megga loves the poet.” 

They were in the courtyard, swapping books and poems back and forth -Margaery, Sansa, and Megga, who was Margaery’s cousin. Sansa liked Megga fine, she supposed. But watching her arm around Margaery, breath stirring her fine brown hair, cheek pressed against her shoulder, Sansa felt an odd tightness in her chest.

“Sansa? Sweetling? Are you feeling well?” Sansa snapped out of it, and smiled graciously as she passed the book over to Margaery, feeling in every nerve the way the other girls’ soft hand slid over her fingers as they made the transaction.

“I’m quite fine, my deepest apologies. I was stuck on a thought...” Megga looked up and smirked. “She’s probably thinking about Loras again.” Sansa blushed a furious red, and shook her head vehemently. “I was not! Anyways, I am to marry Willas, not Loras.”

Margaery patted her hand soothingly. “We know, dearest. Megga, don’t tease her so! And Sansa, I have some stories about Loras that would make you think rather less of him, I would think. Not that you were thinking of him at all, to be sure.” The corners of her dainty mouth curved up in a conspiratorial smile.

All Sansa wanted was to tell her, “I was thinking of you!” But she couldn’t say that, not with Megga there. 

They sat in a pleasant silence for a while, until Alla approached and drew Megga away, probably to go watch the younger knights train. They loved to watch them sweat and hack at each other. Once, Sansa might have wished to go along. Only, now it was just her and Margaery, and she didn’t want to give that up.

“Sansa, do you want to tell me why you’re angry?” Margaery didn’t look up from the book she was perusing. Sansa looked to her with wide eyes. “I’m not angry! Why would I be?”

Margaery finally put down the collection and moved to sit beside her. “You seemed rather upset with me earlier, you kept looking at me strangely.” Sansa shook her head.

“I’m not upset, I swear! I could never! I just.. well... you and Megga, and sometimes Alla, are always your own little circle, and I feel like they don’t like me coming in very much.”

Margaery used a single finger to tip up Sansa’s head so that she could look her in the eyes. “Sansa, dear, I am here, with you. I know that you’ve had horrible, horrible things happen to you and your family. And I am so, so sorry. But I will never, ever lock you out. You deserve a friend, and as it happens, I find myself growing ever more fond of you by the day. I will be good to you. I swear it.”

And as Sansa looked into those wide eyes, she believed her. She believed in the gods, as well. She believed her, she believed her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt by anonymous - first kiss :)

The wind on top of the Wall was always unforgiving. The cold went hand-in-hand with the North, and by extension, the Night’s Watch. Jon was used to the cold. He wasn’t used to this _wind_. He missed the high stone walls of Winterfell on days where the wind on top of the world wouldn’t stop lifting up his cloak and cutting through his furs like a hot knife on butter.

The builders did patrols on top of and below the Wall often, to look for cracks or blemishes in the gargantuan blocks of ice that made it up. Ever since Jon had been named Lord Commander, he had made it a point to take a look himself. He was, after all, probably more intimately acquainted with the Wall than most anyone else at Castle Black.

And _this_ happened every time he did so. Satin walked beside him, breaths puffing crystalline and opaque in the air that hung about his mouth. Satin Flowers was very... _odd_ , in the sense of his aggressive difference to the other men at the Wall.

Satin was not a perfect steward. He often forgot to stoke the fire, or he was late bringing dinner, or he didn’t set out fresh linens as often as would have been typically prudent. But Jon couldn’t imagine another man in his place. Satin was, above all, an unfailingly loyal, good friend.

_Lord Commander Snow_ didn’t have time for friends. But Jon had time for Satin, and Satin always had time for Jon. And every time Jon would go walking on the Wall, Satin would go with.

Satin was perhaps the person least well-suited to the cold that Jon had ever known. His soft, fair skin was raised in a brothel in Oldtown, which was a far cry from the rough, uncompromising, frigid Wall. But every time Jon made for the top of the Wall, Satin came. That said more about him than words ever could, Jon thought.

“My lord? Jon? Are you alright?” Satin looked over at him with flushed cheeks. 

“I’m fine, thank you. Just... Just cold.” Jon smiled back at him and couldn’t help but notice the way snowflakes collected on the tips of his curly hair, framing him in spun silver thread. 

“Well then lets stop by the fire for a moment. I hardly doubt that the Wall is like to collapse if we take a break.” 

“Oh, fine.” Jon acquiesced, followed Satin over to a watchfire, and held his hands out over the crackling orange flames. Satin was doing the same, sighing in relief. Jon half wondered if this diversion was an excuse for him to warm up as well, he voiced often and loudly how much he despised the cold. Or, he voiced this to _Jon_ often and loudly. Satin hated showing weakness in front of his fellow black brothers more than the cold, Jon had seen.

“Satin, why do you insist on coming with me every time I do this?” It had maybe come out harsher than Jon had intended, because Satin flinched, “Do you not... want me to?”

Jon shook his head vehemently. “No! No it’s just... I don’t want you to feel obligated to accompany me. It’s not your job to come with me whenever I insist on doing maybe the most uncomfortable job there is up here.” Satin grinned ruefully. 

“Trust me, I don’t feel _obligated_ to do anything for you. I want to. I... well I suppose I _like_ to. Do things for you and... with you, I mean.” He shifted closer to the fire, looking very determinedly into the flame, and very pointedly _not_ at Jon, who saw that his cheeks were burning again, this time the flush of emotion instead of cold.

“You... _oh_.” Jon was sure that he was blushing now too, and he prayed that his darker skin would not betray him as easily.

“I am your steward, after all.” Satin’s tone was light, but strained, forced somehow, like he wanted Jon to say something. So Jon said something.

“You’re not just my _steward_ , Satin. You’re my friend.” He moved closer to Satin and caught his eye. His eyes were as lovely as the rest of him, dark and curving, with a framing of thick lashes. 

“I’m your...” The tone was almost incredulous, like it had never occurred to him before, like the very notion was mere whimsy and fabrication

Jon couldn’t stand it, he caught one of Satins’ hands between his own and squeezed it gently. His hands were soft and elegant, smooth skin to the more recent callouses formed by hard physical labor all just as pleasant to feel between his palms. Jon had wanted to do this, had wanted to _very_ much.

“I know I’m not very... open. But you are my friend, Satin Flowers. Maybe one of the only true ones I have left. And I couldn’t bear it if you thought that I didn’t think of you like one.”

Satin’s eyes were on his own, wide and clear, and he saw what he was about to do in them. He did not doubt Satin was reading him as well.

He let Satin lean in, and lips as soft as the rest of him opened under his. He had never let himself think about this possibility, so he had no fantasies to compare to. He doubted they would have been better than this, there _was_ no better than this.

He smelled so good, and felt so good, and was so good, and this was so _good_. Satins’ hands were on his face now, holding him with a gentleness that made him want to cry. He pushed a hand through his curls, because he had always, somewhere in the very back of his mind, wanted to and now he _could_ and he was dizzy and falling into something he could never abandon.

And on the top of the world, where cold wind cuts and bites and blows, two people were warm.


End file.
